


Unspoken

by ikebukuro



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Frostbite, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikebukuro/pseuds/ikebukuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>So be it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

"Perhaps I'll check in on you," he says casually, shrugging shoulders that look deceptively thin in the fine material of his emerald shirt. He turns the cup of coffee between his hands, watching the surface of the golden liquid and not her, definitely not her.  
  
Natasha's smile is brief, her fingertips absently spinning the spoon back and forth from side to side in her own mug. "There's no need," she returns lightly, a deflection if there ever was one. "It's just an assignment. I'll be back before you know it." She tapped the swell of her spoon against the side of her cup, watching him through the dissipating steam. "You won't even know I was gone."  
  
He lifts his gaze to hers, but says nothing. It's dawn and the Tower is silent. They sip their coffee together, leaning against the island in the kitchen, and say no more.  
  
True to her word, she's back soon enough - two weeks, but it's not like he was counting. He's been locked up in his quarters since she left, pouring over ancient texts he's sure he's read once or thrice before. Still, when the AI informs him of her renewed presence, he makes his way out into the halls for the first time in days. But she is not in the debriefing room, or on the bridge. She isn't in the kitchen, or in the common area, or gym. And that leaves only one place, really. He hesitates to seek her out there - because it's been an unspoken rule, _no, they don't push this_ , whatever it is - but he goes anyway, because it's been two weeks and now he's curious.  
  
When he knocks on the door, it's short, brief and hollow sounding - like there's an empty universe behind that door, swallowing his summons. He waits there for a long moment, uncharacteristically unsure of the protocol, but the door swings open a second later and she's there, all pale skin swaddled in a barely-adequate towel the same deep, dusky purple as the half-moon bruise smudged around one emerald eye, revealing and damning all at once. He stares because he can't help it.  
  
Natasha's chin lifts, but she doesn't step back; she levels him a glare through her lashes, like she expects him to turn away - but Loki doesn't back down. He finds himself pressing in, taking one step into the room and then another, daring her to try and stop him. And she gives only far enough to let him in before she shoves the door shut behind him.  
  
He doesn't wait for her to speak, because he knows that she's gathering the words to dismiss _this_ , dismiss _him_. Instead, he captures her chin in his palm, turning her head this way and that, inspecting the coloring marring her pale face before he prods at its edges gently with his fingertips.  
  
To her credit, Natasha doesn't flinch - but he can see by the bloom of shuttered heat in her eyes that tells him it is just as tender as it looks. His hands drop away and he steps back - he doesn't know why, but he does. He finds his hands balled into loose fists at his side.  
  
"It's just work," she says finally, turning away from him to cross the room.  
   
His eyes follow her, lingering on what looks suspiciously like a boot-sized bruise right between her shoulders, but he keeps quiet, saying nothing. She disappears into the en-suite bathroom and comes out a few moments later, wearing a thin, worn shirt with no sleeves and a pair of those comfortable, baggy pants, a size too large where they threaten to fall off her slim hips. Loki's gaze finds and catalogs new bruises, miscellaneous cuts and scrapes and healing wounds. He makes a map of them in his mind, his eyes narrowing a fraction at a time. He stares, but still he says _nothing_.   
  
"It's part of the job," she reiterates, dropping down onto the edge of the bed. The pack by her feet is half open and overspills with knives, guns, spare clips and a length of coiled wire that glitters in the sparse moonlight seeping through the window. They are the tools and toys of her irresponsible occupation.  
  
He ignores them.  
  
There's quiet for long moments, with Loki watching her and Natasha watching him right back. He stays by the door and she's made her stand there on the bed. Neither of them move; there is no advance, and no retreat. _Deadlock_.  
  
Then. " _Who?_ "  
  
It is as much a demand as a question; he wants to _know_.  
  
She shrugs, the movement stiff with soreness. "It doesn't matter. It's done. I got what I needed."  
  
His fists tighten at his sides. He starts to speak again, but she's suddenly _there_ , off the bed and across the room, standing before him, her face a mere hairsbreadth from his.  
  
"This is my _job_ ," she hisses. "This is what I _do_. This is what I _am_." Her eyes are glittering, cut sharp and painfully hard as she glares him down even as he looms over her. "If you have a problem with it, then don't look too close. But I can't change _this_. I _won't_." And the way she says it is too determined, too venomous. For a moment he wonders how often she might have had this argument with herself. But he's not backing down either and if she's going to issue challenges, then he will take them - _every time_ \- because even if this might all end in fury and fire, he does what he wants.   
  
And what he wants right now - what he has wanted for _weeks_ \- is _her_ , and that's all there is to it.   
  
He closes the scant inches between them, her softness suddenly pressed against him as he walks her back toward the bed, one step behind the other until her knees hit the edge and she collapses back. He follows her down, his hands finding soft curves and bruised hollows as he drags her under him. He hovers over her, inspecting her expression, watching the turbulent light that flickers in her eyes - but she doesn't move away, doesn't throw him off. And that's all the answer he needs.  
  
Their lips brush, once, twice.  
  
Experimental.  
  
 _Forbidden._  
  
Damnation. Salvation.  
  
 _Perfection_.  
  
And in the silence between one heartbeat and the next, he whispers, " _So be it._ "

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, right---- Sorry about that! That's where it ends for now. I might be inclined to write more, but as of now this is it. This piece is mostly a standalone for my friend Claire, the most marvelous Loki-rper I've ever had the pleasure of playing with.


End file.
